


In Cornwall

by illwick



Series: In Between [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5911912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a case in Cornwall, John and Sherlock's relationship takes a turn that will profoundly change them both. Set directly after the events of "The Hounds of Baskerville".</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Cornwall

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of the "In Between" series, a collection of vignettes about the moments in between what we see on screen--in no particular order.

The case is a disappointment.

It was clear when Sherlock barged into John’s room at 4:30 in the morning on a Tuesday and announced that they were going to Cornwall, he was under the impression that they were onto something big.

And it had certainly seemed like it, in the beginning. The grisly mutilation of a wealthy aristocrat, Lady Atelby, in the sleepy seaside town was right up Sherlock’s alley. The victim’s husband had called Sherlock in when the local police came up empty-handed, and Sherlock blazed though series after series of deductions as he reviewed the police notes and prowled the crime scene. He was in his element, and all John could do was stand back and watch.

As night fell on that first day, it became clear that the case would take more time. Typing furiously on his phone, Sherlock announced that an old acquaintance had offered to put them up in his family’s unused holiday home in Kingsand.

“Just for as long as the case lasts,” Sherlock said. “He owes me a favor. And I need somewhere with proper internet. The WiFi out here is abysmal.”

So they’d retired to a stunningly luxurious cottage on the cliffs of Kingsand. Despite its ancient-looking stone exterior, the interior was spectacularly renovated. Only a single room, the light wooden beams, high ceiling, and panoramic windows overlooking the sea gave the impression of spaciousness that seemed inconceivable from outside. The kitchen area, which took up one wall, was nothing short of gourmet, and the seating area surrounded a stone fireplace that looked to be straight out of a magazine. The enormous king-sized bed in the corner looked so well-appointed that it took all the restraint John could muster to not just stagger over to it and collapse into a well-earned sleep. But Sherlock was on the case, they had 26 years of county clerk’s marriage records to review, and Sherlock had only just fired up his laptop.

John had awoken to the sound of waves crashing on the shore and gulls calling in the distance. Were it not for the enormous crick in his neck, he’d think he’d fallen asleep at a luxury spa. Instead, upon opening his eyes, he realized he’d nodded off on the sofa at God knows what time, the armrest was digging into his neck, and his shoulder felt like it was on fire. Dawn was just beginning to break over the grey-crested waves outside the panoramic windows.

Sitting up, John rolled out his shoulders and glanced around for Sherlock. Sure enough, he was still awake, sitting bolt upright in a chair by the fireplace, eyes still glued to his laptop.

“Excellent, John, you’re awake,” he droned, without looking up.

“Uh, yeah, more or less. Any progress?”

“Yes. Get dressed. We need to be at the barber shop when it opens.”

John had obliged, throwing on his favorite jeans and jumper and sliding his gun into his coat pocket. He was ready for a day of adventure.

The day of adventure, however, turned out to be more a day of relentless tedium. Sherlock’s lead at the barber shop failed to pan out, and a majority of the rest of the day was spent elbows-deep in city records at the clerk’s office, searching for the marriage certificate of one of Lady Atelby’s distant cousins. Sherlock left John at the clerk’s office early in the afternoon to re-visit the crime scene and had promised to return shortly. Four hours later, the clerk’s office was closing, John’s eyes were bleary from overuse, and he had no idea where Sherlock had gone off to. 

He exited the office and pulled out his mobile and was ready to fire off a vitriolic text to Sherlock when he heard his voice behind him.

“John! There you are. I was worried you’d wandered off.”

“Wandered… what? No, I’ve been here the whole time, reviewing the records. Please tell me you didn’t forget about me until just now.”

“Of course not!” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, refusing to meet John’s eyes. “I remembered you were here. Doing…the…crucial work.”

“For God’s sake.” John rolled his eyes and started walking through the quiet square in the direction of the cottage.

“So what now?” John asked. “The clerk’s office is closed, so if you haven’t got any more leads, I for one would like a nap before we start back on this drudgery tonight.”

“I was thinking we’d have dinner.”

“Dinner?” John was flummoxed. “Like, a stakeout?”

“No, just a dinner dinner. With food. I solved the case an hour ago.”

“You…what? How? Who was it?”

“The husband. Completely dull and utterly boring.”

“But he’s the one who called us in!”

“Yes, he’s a raging megalomaniac who believes himself infallible. His in-laws were threatening to investigate his claim to the life insurance, so he figured if he brought me in it would confirm his innocence in their eyes, and, with any luck, I’d fail to make the necessary connections before he had time to cash in on the insurance and leave the country.”

“So shouldn’t we be going to his house to help out with the arrest?”

“Completely pointless, he's already in custody. The local police could handle him with their eyes closed. I knew he wouldn't try to make a run for it with the torn meniscus he sustained during the attack.”

“So that’s it? Case solved?”

“Case solved.”

“You look devastated.”

“I suppose I’ve grown accustomed to a better class of criminal.” They laughed, and Sherlock slowed to a stop before a sign that read _The Devonport Inn_. “And I don’t know about you,” he continued. “But all this tedium and sea air has left me in the mood for oysters.” Grinning, he opened the door to the Inn and ushered John inside.

So the case is a disappointment. But they dissolve their bitter mood with oysters and Fowey moules and scallops and Dover sole and a bottle of white wine so crisp it makes John’s tongue tingle. He loves it when Sherlock gets like this after a case—loose and laid back, and smiling that certain smile he has when he’s content with the work he’s done, which is almost never. They’ve just decided to opt out of a dessert course when the waiter brings out a bottle of expensive brandy.

“A gift from the Atelbys,” he declares. 

John raises his eyebrows. “We should probably take that to go.”

The waiter nods and bustles off, and John checks his mobile. “The earliest train back to London is at 6:00 tomorrow morning. Figure we should take that one?”

“Or we could stay.”

“What?”

“My acquaintance who lent us the cottage said we’re free to use it through the weekend if we’d like. I don’t have any cases on back in London, and as you’re not on call at the surgery, I figured we could…stay.”

John looks at Sherlock as though he’s grown a second head. “Like…a mini-break?”

“For God’s sake, we don’t have to, it was just a thought,” Sherlock huffs, gathering his coat and standing up, snatching the bottle of brandy off the table.

“No! Of course. Of course we can stay, Sherlock. It would be…nice. To get away for a few days.” It _would_ be nice, John thinks to himself, after everything that has happened in the past few months. Moriarty, The Woman, the bad business in Baskerville. He's felt they've been running on fumes for weeks. Perhaps a break is just what they need.

They walk back to the cottage in companionable silence. Once inside, Sherlock sets out the brandy and goes to the cupboard to rummage for two glasses. John busies himself building a fire in the grand stone fireplace. They meet on the sofa, where Sherlock hands him a snifter, and they toast.

“Cheers,” says John.

“To a better class of criminal,” says Sherlock.

Their eyes lock. John can feel the electricity in the room; the heady tingling that fills the air just before he and Sherlock have one of their... _encounters_. It seems to sing in his blood, vibrating out of every pore.

But Sherlock is hesitating. Back at Baker Street, John is certain Sherlock would have jumped his bones by now. But instead he is sitting stiffly at the far end of the sofa, snifter trembling slightly in his hand. This never happens at home, John thinks—Sherlock wears his desires on his sleeve from the moment he deigns to indulge them. But tonight, it’s different.

Suddenly, it strikes John how different tonight truly is. Back at Baker Street, their occasional "encounters" (as John has come to refer to them in his head) up to this point could be easily explained away: two flatmates getting each other off as a response to an adrenaline high fueled by a near-death experience. Or, more commonly, two best friends whose mutual boredom mingled with crippling co-dependency occasionally resulted in their need to take out their sexual frustrations with each other. But tonight, it’s none of those things. It’s two men in a holiday home in Cornwall, with a fireplace and fancy brandy and a king-sized bed. Tonight is something very different indeed.

Sherlock had always been conscientious of John’s trepidation about his own sexuality. In the early days, he seemed to ignore it every time John “NOT GAY” Watson made a fuss about the public’s impression of their relationship. But even after the nature of their relationship had changed (shortly after that fiasco with The Woman) and John had quit publicly proclaiming his heterosexuality to anyone who would listen, Sherlock had kept any interaction they had outside of Baker Street strictly platonic.

John had ceased to be able to reconcile his sexuality even to himself. How was it possible that he loved women—so much so it had earned him a reputation in the bloody _Army_ —but one look from those jade-bright eyes and he suddenly ached for nothing but the flat planes and sharp angles of Sherlock’s physique? How was it that his interest in anyone BUT Sherlock had waned to the point he couldn’t even keep a girlfriend’s name straight? How was it possible that despite having fulfilling relationships with women in the past, he could no longer bring himself to have any interest in anyone but the man sitting in front of him? 

John Watson was not gay. But whatever is happening between him and Sherlock tonight, in this lovely holiday home with its romantic vista views and the sound of crashing waves and cozy glow of the fire…this was very gay indeed.

In that case, John tells himself, he _is_ whatever _this_ is.

Decision made, he steels his resolve and closes the distance between Sherlock and himself in one fluid motion, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s eagerly. Sherlock makes a sound of slight surprise, then John hears the soft _clack_ of his brandy glass being set on the end table, and then Sherlock’s hands are in his hair and around his neck and down his back pulling him closer and this is _everything_.

Sherlock reaches up to undo the top button of his own shirt, following the frantic pace of their past encounters at Baker Street. 

“No.” John stills his hands. “Don't rush tonight. Let me take you apart.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly. He manages to breathe out a quiet, “Alright.”

So for once, John takes his time. He laves soft, slow kisses across Sherlock's cheekbones, down his neck, and to his tantalizingly-exposed collarbone. He pauses at the juncture of his neck and shoulder to nip and suck, picturing the gorgeous bruise that would blossom there, marking Sherlock as his. He hardens considerably thinking about it.

By the time he gets to work removing Sherlock's shirt (one agonizing button at a time), Sherlock's sighs have turned to rumbling moans, escalating as John turns his attention to his peaked nipples. With Sherlock's shirt removed, John can finally fully appreciate the form before him, and delights in running his fingertips over the taut planes and tantalizing curves of Sherlock's body. He kisses his way down his chest, his stomach, and then upon reaching the top of his belt, John drops to his knees and kneels between Sherlock's legs. He looks up. Sherlock's eyes are wide and glazed. He nods.

John makes quick work of Sherlock's trousers and pants, and returns to kneel before him. Sherlock is breathing hard and trembling slightly, fully nude before John. Something about this shameless exposure, juxtaposed with John's still fully-clothed state, is indescribably erotic. John runs his fingers over Sherlock's anklebones, then up his muscular calves, over his bony knees, and spreads his hands across Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock's head lolls back. John takes him into his mouth.

John still feels awkward performing this particular act. He's only tried it a handful of times, back at Baker Street with Sherlock, during some of their more intimate fumblings. He admittedly has no idea what he's doing, but he'd assumed up until this point that he should just...do what he remembered liking done to him. But tonight, he _observes_. He takes the time to analyze Sherlock's every twitch and sigh, every elevation in his pulse, every swallowed groan. He loses himself in the sensation, in the feedback loop of affirmation, and simply allows himself to feel. 

He's startled when he feels Sherlock's hands gripping his hair tightly. He pulls back.

"Sorry," Sherlock murmurs. "Too close."

"'S'alright," John replies, smiling up at him, and the sight that meets his eyes takes his breath away.

Sherlock is wrecked. His hair is askew, and he's entirely covered in a light sheen of sweat that glows in the light of the fire. The point on his neck that John had suckled has turned a glorious shade of aubergine. He's breathing hard, and his eyes look glassy and dazed.

"Let me take you to bed, Sherlock. Let me have you. Please."

_"Oh God, yes."_

Sherlock gets unsteadily to his feet, looking for all the world like a day-old foal learning to walk. He makes his way gracelessly over to the bed, throws back the covers without ceremony, and flops into it, rolling onto his back to devour John with his gaze.

John quickly divests himself of his own clothes, choosing to forsake the potential awkwardness of a pathetic attempt at a strip-tease in favor of sheer efficiency.

"Have you got any--"

"Side pocket of my suitcase," Sherlock replies, sounding exasperated.

"I'm not going to ask why you brought lube on a murder case."

"Easiest way out of ill-fitting handcuffs."

John stops in his tracks, Sherlock raises his eyebrows, a beat, and then they both dissolve into giggles.

"Budge over. Only you could somehow manage to take up every inch of space on a bed this size."

Sherlock obliges, centering himself on the bed, and John climbs in after him, and kneels beside Sherlock's prone form.

The giggling stops. John gazes down at Sherlock, and swears he can feel his own heart beating out of his chest.

He can't stop staring at Sherlock. Half of his body reflects the light from the fireplace, the other half reflects the moonlight shining in through the panoramic windows. He is a vision in fire and ice, and John cannot help but think in a wild panic, _There must be some mistake. There is no way that this creature has chosen to give himself to me. Any moment, I will wake up from this daydream to my normal life instead of this insane fantasy._

"John?" Sherlock looks suddenly hesitant, almost as if he's about to ask, 'Not good?'

John snaps back into the moment and swoops in for a kiss. Sherlock melts into his arms.

John prepares Sherlock slowly. The few times they've engaged in this particular act back on Baker Street (and there were only a handful--they'd seemed to come to an unspoken agreement that hand jobs, blow jobs, and various forms of frottage were far less messy and seemed to suit their needs in most cases), the preparation had been quick and perfunctory; a hasty means to a frantic release. But tonight, John takes his time, stimulating Sherlock's prostate _just so_ after every added finger to lessen the burn and pain of the stretch. By the time he is ready, Sherlock is vibrating like string and John is so hard he can barely see straight.

He kneels between Sherlock's spread legs, and pulls a pillow beneath his lower back. Sherlock wraps his legs around him, and John leans forward. 

At the moment of contact, Sherlock reaches up and grabs John's hands, placing his palms against John's own, and entwines their fingers. John presses their hands gently into the pillow above Sherlock's head, and thrusts inside.

The moment is so shatteringly intimate, John cannot breathe. This is unlike anything they've ever done before. This is unlike anything _he's_ ever done before. The only thing he can think to do is lean down for one more kiss before he begins to move.

The burn is slow but steady. He doesn't rush, and he's relieved that Sherlock isn't spitting out his usual litany of _'Harder! Faster! For God's sake, John, I won't BREAK.'_ Instead, there's just the sound of their intensifying breathing, of Sherlock's soft moans that crescendo in volume as John angles to find just the right spot. John lets go of Sherlock's hands to provide himself better leverage, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to grab John's arse, forcing him deeper inside.

They're careening towards an inevitable ledge, a cliff so sheer that John's stomach clenches to think of the upcoming drop. But there's nothing for it now. He's thrusting into Sherlock with abandon, and Sherlock is moaning at a volume that would be completely mortifying were they not in an isolated cottage at the edge of civilization.

Sherlock's breathing hitches. 

"Are you close?" John whispers. Sherlock can only nod vigorously. "Touch yourself."

Sherlock does, his hand curling around himself between their mutual heat, and John drinks in the sight of him. His back begins to arch, and John focuses all his energy on hitting just the right angle. "That's it. Beautiful. Brilliant. Amazing. Come for me. You're fucking perfect. Come."

And Sherlock falls apart. John works him diligently through it, careful to avoid overstimulation.

Once he regains his bearings, Sherlock blinks blearily up at John. "Are you close?"

"Yes," John breathes. "Is it alright if I keep going? Or I can just--"

"No, please, keep going. Please."

John speeds up his thrusts, changing his angle to avoid Sherlock's most sensitive places. But he is still surrounded by all that delicious tight heat, and he can feel his orgasm spooling in the pit of his stomach, ready to unravel.

He stares down at Sherlock, blissed out and utterly spent beneath him, eyes wide and honest as he wraps his legs more tightly around John, urging him forward.

"John, yes. Please, yes. John. John. John."

The sound of his name on Sherlock's lips is the most erotic thing he's ever heard. Suddenly, he's coming harder than he ever has in his life.

Some time later, they drift back to reality, though John has no idea how much later; it may have been minutes, or perhaps hours. Sherlock pads quietly to the bathroom, then on his way back to bed swoops up the abandoned brandy snifters and bottle from the end table by the sofa. He climbs back into bed next to John and hands him a glass. They raise their brandies in a toast and then knock them back. John sputters slightly.

"Can't take your brandy?" Sherlock teases.

"Hate the stuff, actually," John confesses.

"How on earth can you hate brandy?"

"Easy. Split a whole bottle of it with your best friend when he knicks it from his dad's liquor cabinet at age 11, and get caught when you vomit it up in your mother's potted plants the next morning. That'll make quick work of any budding brandy habit."

Sherlock laughs. "Age 11, John? Such a rebel."

"Oh, I tried to be. But I was absolute bollocks at getting away with anything." He tells Sherlock the story of the time he and his best friend from Primary school had tried to kidnap the neighbor's new puppy (only to have it eat its way out of his closet through the door), and the time in Uni that he and Stamford and a few other of their rugby mates had stolen an opposing team's equipment, only to find out it had been infested with bedbugs.

"Alright, enough about me," John laughs. "Your turn."

"Oh, I got away with everything."

"Somehow I doubt that." Sherlock raises his eyebrows. John capitulates. "Fine, you got away with everything. But tell me something about your childhood. You never talk about it."

He half expects Sherlock to refuse him, to issue some biting retort about sentimentality and emotional indulgences, but instead, Sherlock simply leans back against the pillows and smiles, refilling his brandy glass with a hearty pour.

He tells John about a pair of ducklings he and Mycroft rescued once when they were young, about his boyhood dog named Redbeard, and about a girl named Alice who was his only friend in Secondary school. She was strange like him, Sherlock muses. An artist, not a scientist, but they shared the same sensibilities and impatience with the tedium of others. They’d spend long hours together in the fields behind Sherlock’s childhood home, Sherlock collecting specimens for his experiments and Alice filling sketchbook after sketchbook with her pencil drawings.

“Where is she now?” asks John. “Do you ever see her?”

“She died when we were 17,” Sherlock replies simply. “Drugs.”

John feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “You’ve never mentioned her before.”

“I don’t think of her that often.”

“Really? Your only childhood friend?”

“At the time she died, my Mind Palace was in disarray. I was in no state to build a room for her, and as the time passed, my memories of her dissipated. Now they appear seemingly at random, unbeckoned, and for a moment I’ll remember. I thought of her a lot when we worked with The Woman. Irene…you know. She was quite like her.”

John is puzzled. “So why do you think you remembered her tonight?”

Sherlock smiles, a bit wistfully, the edges of his eyes crinkling. “I was thinking she’d be happy for me.”

John grins back. “You reckon? Think she’d like me?”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose in mock horror. “You? An uptight army doctor barging in to besmirch my virtue? She’d’ve hated you. _Bad man..._ ”

John joins in his laughter and leans in for a kiss, which quickly turns into something more, full of heat and fervor. As he presses against Sherlock’s still-open entrance and feels them join together again, he thinks to himself, _This will never be enough. I could like in this bed with this man until the universe collapses in on itself and still never feel like I had enough time to just be here._

Their second time is rougher, but no less intense. Sherlock's passage is still slick with lube and come from their first go-round, and John's head swims with lust as he surges forward into him. Sherlock suddenly pushes John out, then flips himself over onto his hands and knees and pulls John forward to take Sherlock from behind, where the angle is deeper, and moans in satisfaction.

All semblance of modesty has gone by the wayside. John is more vocal this time around, matching Sherlock shout for shout as he pistons into him. In a lust-riddled haze, he admires the way Sherlock's knuckles have turned sheet-white as he grips the headboard, the sinew of his arms straining with effort. John clutches his hips hard, holding them firmly in place, taking his pleasure without hesitation.

Suddenly, Sherlock goes rigid and lets out a bellowing yell, and John arrives at the dizzying realization that he's come untouched. It's enough to send John over the edge, filling Sherlock as hard and fast as he can, the edges of his vision blurring in ecstasy.

They don't talk anymore after that. They lie side by side, chests heaving, measuring the sound of their own breath against the murmur of the waves crashing outside.

The next morning, John wakes to rays of sunlight reflecting off the calm waters of the coast. The bed is empty, but he turns to see Sherlock in the kitchen, surrounded by an alarming amount of smoke.

Leaping into action, John sprints to the kitchen, only to find the source of the danger appears to be the toaster. Sherlock is fanning at it madly with an ivy-printed oven mitt, but to no avail--smoke continues to billow out the slots. John has the wherewithal to yank the plug from the wall, and the smoking stops.

"I...was making toast," Sherlock offers helplessly.

"That--" John's about to go off on him about the multiple warnings he's received regarding proper use of kitchen appliances, but the ridiculousness of the situation suddenly strikes him. They're standing in the gourmet kitchen of a luxury cottage, Sherlock wearing nothing but his pants and a frilled oven mitt, and John is stark naked, holding a toaster cable and turning red in the face.

"...was very thoughtful of you." John finishes diplomatically.

They manage to finish preparing a satisfactory breakfast (John spearheading the making of toast and eggs, and Sherlock performing his duty as water-boiler with aplomb), and Sherlock suggests they go to the beach.

John is dubious. "I never much took you for the beach type."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Not to wallow in the filthy water and loll about on the sand, John. I brought some of my equipment along in case the opportunity presented itself to collect some soil samples for a mass analysis I'm planning."

"Of course, silly of me. Just let me get my things."

So they set off for the beach, John carrying a blanket and one of the rubbish crime novels he can't make himself stop reading, and Sherlock carrying a bag containing what appears to be a metric tonne of scientific equipment.

That morning is the most peaceful one John can remember since before he'd left for the war. He sits on his blanket, soaking in sand and surf, half-heartedly thumbing at his novel. Sherlock is in his element, scouring the beach with a magnifying glass collecting samples, his hair blowing wildly in the wind, brow furrowed in concentration. John admires him from afar. Even like this, he is beautiful.

It isn't until John saunters down the beach to suggest they head to lunch that he notices how red Sherlock's skin has become. Turns out, he'd neglected to put on any of the sunscreen that John had picked up at the chemist's. The next three days are spent in the cottage, Sherlock growling in agony as John attempts to apply aloe to his blistering skin. Sherlock refuses to leave the premises (more out of vanity than actual discomfort, John presumes), and makes John run to and from the village to fetch various foodstuffs and DVDs for entertainment.

John should hate it. But he doesn't. Sherlock's snits were somehow different here than back in London. None of his snark is directed at John, and he could always be soothed with a pasty and a James Bond DVD. John fills the days reading his book and updating his blog, and Sherlock passes the time absentmindedly jotting down scientific notes and figures in his notebook while staring out at the waves through the enormous picture windows. At night they tumble into bed together with an alarming intimacy that John has never felt with anyone else before. It is all so strangely idyllic, John worries he perhaps has gone mad.

The illusion is broken on the morning of their fourth day, when Sherlock's mobile chirps. He stares down at it, brow furrowed, and begins typing out a hasty reply.

"Case?" John inquires.

"My acquaintance, the one who lent us this cottage, has asked a favor. A painting's gone missing. A valuable one, _Falls of the Reichenbach_. He'd like me to investigate."

"And...would you? Like to investigate?"

Their eyes meet. There is more to John's question that what he put into those words, and Sherlock knows it. Once they return to London, this--whatever this strange dreamworld is that they have created--will be shattered. Life will return to normal, or whatever version of normal it has morphed into since they went down this unfamiliar path.

Sherlock nods. "Yes. I think it's time we head back."

And they do. As they lock up the cottage one last time, it's as if a bubble around them has burst, and John is left feeling raw and exposed in the harsh brightness of the outside world. The train ride back to London seems surreally short, and before he knows it, they're drawn back into the life they'd known before. 

The only tangible lasting change between them is that from then on, back at Baker Street, John sleeps in Sherlock's bed. Sometimes Sherlock joins him, sometimes he doesn't. But during every one of their encounters that follows, John feels a quiet shiver of _otherness_ , as though he's peeking beyond a shimmering veil into some parallel universe that could never truly exist. 

But the biggest change after Cornwall was not tangible. It was something nameless and shapeless that shifted between them during those blissful days on the coast, and it remained forever altered afterwards. For better or worse, John was never able to say with certainty, years down the line knowing all that came after. All he knows is that once, in Cornwall, he found a peace that he thought he'd lost years before. And knowing that he found it once, he can always have hope that somehow, someday, he will find that peace again. This is the hope that sustains him.


End file.
